i exist, squinting
at god’s divinity through
sweat & blood & a bruised
soul, so forgive me this attempt
at cumbersome rememberance.

you see, i was braised
in western fires / in selfish
ways / obeying gods
so heavy with fundamental
happiness that they
knew not how to laugh…

so what need i of robes
of white & streets of gold
in that pale definition
of heaven?
and what wants a man
with so many voiceless
virgins if his life lived
was one of virtue?

tell me / mr. televangelist,
why not is the esoteric
also everlasting? wait,
don’t answer… for the riddle
has already wilted and 
my spirit has fasted long
enough on generic faiths.